


My Man

by RarePairFairy



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Angst, Barricade Boys - Freeform, Bromance, Crying, Cuddling, Friendship, M/M, Modern AU, Pining, Slow Build, Swearing, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RarePairFairy/pseuds/RarePairFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire loves Enjolras. Everybody knows this except for Enjolras. Enjolras loves somebody else.<br/>At first.</p><p>Courfeyrac is amazing and Enjolras is a bit ignorant.</p><p>This is a present for obscureculturalreferences over at Tumblr, who convinced me to see Les Miserables at the cinema with her, and to whom I am deeply grateful. I'm more of a Valjean/Javert shipper myself, but the barricade boys have been fun to write about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He hadn’t meant it. Not that Enjolras would care about that. Not that Joly would care. He hadn’t meant for it to go so far. But that was Grantaire, for you. That was Courfeyrac for you.

Homoeroticism was the name of the game as far as the main circle was concerned. It was almost fashionable, and it certainly got the girl’s attention. Aside from Grantaire, Courfeyrac didn’t think any of them were actually gay. But Enjolras was too damn serious, and Joly was too fucking touch-feely, and everyone except for Enjolras knew that Grantaire was in unrequited love with him and it had become something of a pastime to ruthlessly tease Grantaire about it, because he never seemed to mind too much, and Enjolras never seemed to get it.

So Courfeyrac had noticed that Joly had been sitting next to Enjolras the whole night, and they had been picking food off each other’s plates at dinner. And they had all been drinking, because tonight may have been a meeting but everything that needed discussing had been discussed and most of them had come by taxi and if Enjolras didn’t want them to drink he shouldn’t have kept beer in his house. The radio was on, because the CD player was broken and none of them had an iPod dock, and a familiar country ditty had come on when they weren’t really paying attention, until Courfeyrac grinned at Joly and Enjolras where they were facing each other and talking avidly in the corner across the room, and hollered,

‘Joly, you shameless hussy. You’ve stolen Grantaire’s paramour.’

Courfeyrac didn’t take note of any reaction from Enjolras, which was probably his first mistake. Joly turned beet red, but the rest of the group was shouting and chuckling, and suddenly Grantaire leapt to his feet and turned up the radio, and began to sing along.

‘I could easily understand, how you could easily take my man, but you don’t know what he means to me, Joly,’ he sang, and Courfeyrac’s eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline because he didn’t know Grantaire could sing. And Grantaire could really, really sing. Hoots and wolf-whistles chased Grantaire’s sweet voice around the room.

‘Joly, Joly, Joly Joooollyyyyyy, I’m beggin’ of you, please don’t take my man,’ Grantaire sang, and Courfeyrac could practically see everyone’s goosepimples, because Grantaire had crossed the room with unfairly attractive flair and flung himself to his knees before Joly, grabbing his hands and staring up in playful earnestness. ‘Joly, Joly, Joly Jooolllyyyyyy, please don’t take him just because you can.’  
If there was a tiny note of sincerity in his voice, nobody in the room noticed it or spoke of it.

But it must have been a serious conversation they had been having, because suddenly Enjolras gave Grantaire a shove, and looked about the suddenly quieter room with a fiery glare.

Then he took Joly by the shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.

The crackle of the radio seemed louder than it had been. Grantaire, sitting where he’d landed on his bum on the wooden floorboards, stared up at Enjolras kissing Joly. The worst thing wasn’t the curve of his shoulders as he seemed to sink in on himself – even those who couldn’t see his face, which was most of them, could guess at his expression – but the way he stayed there. He didn’t stand.

In the past, if Grantaire was knocked flat on his arse, he always stood up. He was lazy, and practically a squatter in his friend’s houses, unashamed of his low social status as a drunk and a drop-out, but in the end, he always stood up. He stood, and he trotted along his aimless path, careless and unattached.

But here and now, feeling the shock settle in the room, he stayed on the ground, and slowly lowered his eyes.

Courfeyrac stalled, and then he stood and wordlessly approached. He gently encouraged Grantiare to his feet. Enjolras roughly released a flushed Joly, and looked defiantly at Grantaire who quickly turned his face away so he was facing Courfeyrac’s feet. The defiance, the anger, drained away quickly, haltingly, hesitant, as if it was suddenly occurring to Enjolras that there was something he’d missed. An important moment he’d thought he’d been in control of, that hadn’t really been about him at all.

Courfeyrac was embarrassed, and unnerved. Grantaire wasn’t saying anything. It was always Grantaire’s job to drain the heat out of a painful situation. If Grantaire didn’t know what to say, what did that mean for the rest of them?

There was a variety of expressions in the room as Grantaire hastily went out to the balcony, closing the screen door behind him. The room was silent. Someone had switched off the radio. At least half the boys were looking at Joly, and not kindly. Later they’d say it wasn’t his fault. Two or three were looking at Enjolras, as if to say “what the fuck were you thinking? You’re supposed to be the composed one!” but the same ones would later say it wasn’t his fault either, because he didn’t know. One or two were looking at the screen door, willing Grantaire to come back, for him to diffuse the situation with a laugh, dismiss all the storm clouds and say it was alright, it was fine. He was okay.

But he wasn’t. They all knew it. And it was slowly dawning, even on Enjolras. It wasn’t fine. And he wasn’t okay.

Courfeyrac, under the weight of Enjolras’ increasingly awkward and uncomfortable stare, followed Grantaire, opening the screen door slowly and closing it carefully behind him. As an afterthought, he shut the sliding door too, so they had some privacy. Grantaire was leaning on the railing with his arms wrapped around himself.

Courfeyrac approached until he was directly behind Grantaire, so that his right foot was between Grantaire’s feet, and all he had to do was lean forward to hug him. To hold onto him. To keep him from falling, or doing something else unexpected and heartbreaking.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘S’not your fault,’ Grantaire said thickly. Even though he said it quietly, Courfeyrac could hear the tears in his voice.

Courfeyrac wrapped his hands around Grantaire’s waist, and Grantaire turned in his arms and it was horrible, feeling Grantaire fall apart like this. It was one of the most unimaginable things. He hugged Grantaire and shushed him like a child, and felt the wetness on his shoulder and the tremors as Grantaire tried not to sob.

‘This is fucking sad,’ Grantaire muttered. ‘I can’t believe you’re letting me cry all over you like a little girl. You should be bloody ashamed.’

‘You drank too much beer is all,’ Courfeyrac said with a gentle shrug. ‘It won’t be so bad after the hangover.’

‘Yes it will,’ Grantaire said quietly. ‘It will be worse. I should just keep drinking.’

Courfeyrac pinched Grantaire’s waist until Grantaire punched him back. They stood facing each other apologetically.

‘Don’t you dare do that.’

‘And why shouldn’t I? Don’t I deserve to, after everything?’

‘Nope,’ Courfeyrac said sternly. ‘You can’t let yourself turn into an alcoholic nobody. I won’t allow it.’

‘Why? Because the revolution needs me?’ Grantaire spat over the balcony contemptuously. ‘He doesn’t fucking need me.’

There was a pregnant pause, and then Grantaire slumped against the railing so suddenly than Courfeyrac, in a panic, dashed forward and grabbed him. Fresh tears ran down Grantaire’s face and Courfeyrac dragged him in for another hug, this one tighter, more resolute. He kept playing it over in his head, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. Grantaire had never responded like this to teasing before. Because it had only been teasing. Enjolras had been single, unreachable but single, presumably straight, and it had been fine so long as that was all. But Courfeyrac had to open his big mouth, and accidentally be right. Joly had caught Enjolras’ eye, instead of Grantaire. And in front of everyone, in front of Grantaire, Enjolras had declared it loud and clear. I pick this one. Not that one.

Although, he hadn’t realized that that was exactly what he was saying, stupid fucking Enjolras, because he was too fucking dim to see that beautiful, senseless, silly Grantaire had fallen head over heels in love with him and silently stepped aside without even trying because hey, why would Enjolras ever want a guy like him.

Courfeyrac squeezed Grantaire, and he knew it was in part to console himself, but he did it anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Discontent.

It was thick in the air, and harsh. Like smoke after a fire.

It shouldn’t have been so tangible. Their whole movement had been founded on discontent, so it wasn’t exactly an unfamiliar feeling. But this discontent was strange, not right somehow. And Courfeyrac was pretty sure he knew where it was coming from.

It had been three months, and things had settled down between Grantaire and Joly and Enjolras. No-one made jokes any more about Grantaire, and Enjolras must have noticed that, because he had gotten more and more obviously uncomfortable as things changed, and it was clear that he was realizing exactly how little he knew. How much everybody else had noticed, how little attention he himself had paid. How stupid, or worse, how callous he must have looked. 

In the first week things had cooled between Enjolras and Joly until Grantaire, in a fit of pique, had literally thrown them together and demanded they remain a couple.

‘I won’t be pitied into feeling guilty,’ he’d snapped. ‘With a body as fine as that, Enjolras, somebody had better be enjoying it.’

And then he’d trundled off, casual as anything, and Enjolras and Joly had gone back to sitting together, though, Courfeyrac noticed, they didn’t pick food off each other’s plate. And when Joly stayed over at Enjolras’ house, it was more often than not because he couldn’t get a lift with Marius.

Grantaire didn’t let anyone talk about his feelings to Enjolras if he could help it. Courfeyrac wondered if he was concerned mostly about himself, or about Enjolras. He personally had sat down with Enjolras later that dreadful night, when everyone had gone home and Grantaire had stumbled into Marius’ car to curl up in the back seat with Combeferre. Joly had also left, but he had left alone because no-one was ready to talk to him yet so soon after seeing Grantaire barefacedly walk through the room to the front door with his tear-stained face.

Enjolras had tentatively asked Courfeyrac why Grantaire was so upset, and Courfeyrac, still feeling the ghost of Grantaire shaking in his arms, had snarled, ‘why do you think?’

So it was officially common knowledge, now entirely unspoken. But Grantaire wanted things to be as normal as possible, now that he’d had his moment to fall apart and the chaos was going back to normal chaos, as opposed to emotional chaos. So Joly and Enjolras stayed a couple, and none of the guys teased Grantaire about his feelings any more, and even Marius and Cosette reined it in on their glorious true-love fluff parade when Grantaire was around. 

Despite the discontent that hung in the air like a fog, things went about as well as they possibly could, under the given circumstances.

Until the march.

It had been arranged for late June, during the break, so that all of the uni students could attend. They wanted it to be huge. Of course, the danger of a huge march is the reciprocally sizeable response from the police force.

Grantaire was passionate about nothing, as a general rule, except for the one man he couldn’t have, so everyone was surprised to see him at the front of the group, roaring with the best of them, and when the force came forward with their clear shields he looked positively delighted. Someone made the fool move of providing eggs and Grantaire was among the youngest and the most foolhardy, hurling eggs at the shields and still roaring, looking like a madman, and Courfeyrac, sensing the impending violence along with everybody else who had brought binoculars and held onto his common sense, had battled to get to the front, just in time to see police batons.

In the confusion, some determined the rally on and some resigned to falling back in fear of it becoming a riot, it took Courfeyrac half an hour to find the main body of the group. When he did, Combeferre was holding a folded bloodied napkin to the side of Grantaire’s forehead.

‘What the fuck did you do?’ Courfeyrac fussed, kneeling beside Grantaire. Enjolras was biting his nails a few feet away, despite Joly continually batting his fingers away from his mouth.

‘I gave as good as I got,’ Grantaire protested, and Combeferre allowed Courfeyrac to take responsibility for holding napkins to Grantaire’s head. He checked under the insufficient bandaging. He knew head injuries bled like the dickens, but Grantaire was looking pale, and he couldn’t help the terror building in his chest.

‘We ought to get you looked at,’ Courfeyrac said, and while Grantaire complained and declared that he was right as rain, Courfeyrac searched around for Marius to ask if he had his car. In passing, he let himself hiss to Joly. ‘You’re a fucking nursing student, aren’t you? You should have taken him to the hospital as soon as you saw him.’

Joly had the decency to look sheepish.

Marius, upon hearing that one of the boys was injured, was soon screeching to a halt on the curb and ushering Grantaire into the front passenger seat. Enjolras held the door open for him, then seemed to try to reach out for a second, before stepping back.

Courfeyrac pointedly got into the back seat with Cosette. She was sliding her hand along the back of the drivers seat until it met Marius’s, and they squeezed each other’s fingers briefly. Courfeyrac reached over the front to place it on Grantaire’s shoulder, and smiled when Grantaire reached up to pat his hand. Courfeyrac took a little pleasure in seeing the twitch in Enjolras’ nose at that.

It was a mercifully short wait in A&E, though the lady who saw to Grantaire had clearly been dealing with protesters all day and was eager to get them out of her waiting room. He didn’t need stitches, she said, but may have a concussion, so Courfeyrac dragged Grantaire back to his flat. He didn’t know where Grantaire had planned to sleep, but knowing him, it probably wasn’t anywhere conductive to peaceful healing. So he tucked Grantaire into his couch with a woolly blanket and shared an instant dinner with him.

‘Three months,’ Grantaire said.

‘Hm?’

‘Three months. That’s supposed to be long enough, isn’t it?’

‘Long enough for what?’

‘For someone to get over unrequited love,’ Grantaire said. It wasn’t barefaced pleading. Grantaire didn’t do that. But it was a plea. Courfeyrac sucked his bottom lip and sighed thoughtfully.

‘I mean, it’s acceptable, isn’t it? Realistic?’

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes. ‘Huh?’

‘If I were to tell everybody that I’m shagging you, they wouldn’t think it was slutty or weird?’

Courfeyrac turned to face Grantaire with wide eyes.

‘Oh screw you captain proper, I haven’t told anyone that yet. I just want this fucking Depression to end.’

‘What Depression? I mean, aside from the metaphor for what we’re protesting against.’

‘You can see it, can’t you? Enjolras and Joly are acting like they’ve just found out they’re cousins. No-one ever saw Enjolras just spontaneously kiss someone before, but he did kiss Joly.’

There was a very brief, but heavy, pause. But Grantaire didn’t let it last.

‘They must have made each other happy once. I don’t want to have stopped that. I don’t want to be responsible for Enjolras being unable to be happy.’

Courfeyrac stared at Grantaire in wonder. It was one thing to have a little brother in Gavroche. But honourary little brother Grantaire was like an irrepressible, perfect companion. The wingman Courfeyrac could aspire to be some day. The urban gypsy, free from all trappings, home, possessions, selfless and ethereal. And his heart was made of gold.

‘If I could just fall in love with you, you know,’ he said slowly, ‘I would.’

Grantaire smiled up at him.

‘Well, lover, here’s your chance.’


	3. Chapter 3

Surprisingly, hardly anyone responded to the revelation of Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s “relationship” with surprise. Everyone seemed extremely happy for them, though the pair knew it was in part a relieved response to Grantaire’s disastrous previous crush. It made Courfeyrac feel bad for lying, but then he’d see the smile on Grantaire’s face, and he’d know he was in part responsible for Grantaire’s ability to smile.

Courfeyrac would never mistake his own feelings for Grantaire as passion. He loved Grantaire, but in a relaxed, familial way. Grantaire was his bro. His hetero life partner. They had been friends too long, seen too much of each other’s childishness, and fallen into a platonic brotherly love some years ago when they were still basically children, so that romance was entirely impossible to consider without the pair of them squeamishly laughing as if they were eleven years old again.

Although, maybe it was this that made them so authentic as a couple. Grantaire had barely moved off Courfeyrac’s couch since Courfeyrac made him lie down there, and whenever someone came to visit in those early days to see how Grantaire was doing (although a concussion was nothing, some of the boys had wound up with broken ribs simply play-fighting amongst themselves) it had been fun to play it up and share cheeky grins when people turned aside. They watched the rumours spread, the intrigued eyes rove over their “subtly” brushing fingertips, see the badly concealed grin on Marius’ face when Courfeyrac swept a lock of hair off Grantaire’s forehead to inspect the shallow, bruised cut, then boldly lean over and press the gentlest of kisses to it.

Later that day they had laughed about it until Grantaire, giggling helplessly, had pressed his hand to the uninjured side of his forehead, begging Courfeyrac to shut up because he was making his headache worse. 

Word had evidently reached Enjolras, because when he and Joly visited for the first time in forever (Enjolras hated Courfeyrac’s house because he didn’t even use solar or recycle anything) they stood awkwardly in the lounge room for a moment, Courfeyrac sitting on the couch with Grantaire’s head resting in his lap, both reclining in total ease, basking in the sheer awkwardness of Joly and Enjolras not knowing what to say.

‘Maybe you should ask your landlady if there’s something in the pipes in your building,’ Grantaire said listlessly. Enjolras tilted his head slightly.

‘At the end of last year, everybody was straight. Suddenly we’re all turning into poofters. It’s a disgrace. Somebody ought to warn the council.’

Courfeyrac started chuckling before Grantaire finished his sentence, and mercifully, so did Joly. So the silence and discomfort was slowly broken, and, by some miracle, so was the discontent.

Mostly.

A few weeks in, and Grantaire had begun repaying Courfeyrac for letting him stay (and masquerading as his boyfriend) by cooking him dinner and doing his laundry. When the group came by to visit or for a meeting, and saw Grantaire barefoot in the kitchen wearing only an apron and a pair of Courfeyrac’s jeans (which looked incredibly domestic but was in fact because Grantaire pilfered Courfeyrac’s wardrobe), they commented, teased affectionately, and Grantaire became Housewife, giving Courfeyrac one day the inspiration to slow-dance with him in the kitchen to the sound of the rain outside. Cosette and Eponine sighed loudly, clasping hands to keep each other from filming the romantic event on their phones.

Courfeyrac rested his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder and allowed himself to glance from under his eyelashes to see who was looking.

To his surprise, he saw Enjolras first.

The fearless leader had looked up from where he stood by the table against the wall, and been caught off-guard. But he didn’t look put off, or roll his eyes, like Courfeyrac was expecting. He just stared. He looked … for want of a better word, shocked. He looked like he’d just been shot in the head.

Grantaire dipped Courfeyrac while he wasn’t expecting it, causing them to trip and collapse to the ground. His laugh broke Courfeyrac’s attention and they rolled together, snuggling on the kitchen floor and egging on the wolf-whistles coming from the boys, and when Courfeyrac looked back up, Enjolras had turned his back to them and was stubbornly trying to bring Bossuet and Combeferre’s attention back to the list someone had blu-tacked to the wall.

Half an hour later, Courfeyrac couldn’t get Enjolras’ expression out of his head. Grantaire had followed Courfeyrac into his bedroom, winking at the group from over his shoulder when they hooted and howled. They were both in a pair of Courfeyrac’s tracksuit pants, flat on their backs on the bed, staring at the small old TV set up on top of Courfeyrac’s closet as the news reported on another rally happening in the capital.

‘I’ve never felt so big and strong, and so little and weak at the same time,’ Grantaire droned, staring at the protestors on the screen and balancing a bowl of crackers on his belly.

‘We’re making a difference,’ Courfeyrac insisted. ‘The bill will reach parliament this time. Too many people have fought for it. They can’t continue to ignore so many people without starting to look like a tyrannical empire, and they won’t risk that. They’re all about image.’

‘I don’t fucking care if the bill passes,’ Grantaire said. ‘I was talking about Enjolras.’

Courfeyrac hummed, and thought against about Enjolras’ expression. To think, a few weeks of adopting Grantaire into his house, settling into this sweet routine with his best bro, like a platonic asexual loving relationship, and Enjolras had to ruin it by responding in the opposite way to how Grantaire had intended. Enjolras and Joly hadn’t even held hands, not that Courfeyrac noticed, and they barely sat together when the group had dinner at someone’s house any more.

‘How can you feel weak?’ Courfeyrac asked quietly. ‘Is it that you still love him?’

‘You know I do,’ Grantaire said plainly. ‘But that’s not it. It’s like … I have this power, this great big secret, which lets me show people that I’m fine. That they shouldn’t worry. But that’s the weak part, too. I shouldn’t need to lie about whether or not I’ve got somebody keeping me warm at night. I should be able to say I’m fine, it’s all good, and just have people believe me.’

Courfeyrac thought about it. He hadn’t considered that Grantaire might feel that way. It had been too much fun, this performance, like improve art, or playing house. He said so, and Grantaire grinned at him and nodded in agreement. 

The sound of someone’s footsteps up the hallway interrupted the discussion. Grantaire shifted the bowl of crackers to the floor, and braced himself on his elbows, grin expanding into something devilish. Then, as the sound of footsteps stopped outside the door, he launched himself onto Courfeyrac’s body and mussed his hair, straddling him and tossing pillows hastily to the floor. Courfeyrac, unable to stop the giggle that burst forth as the doorhandle turned, grabbed Grantaire’s bum and let their foreheads touch in a mutual pretend-snog, punctuated by shivers of suppressed laughter.

The door swung open, and they turned their attention like overly astonished rabbits to the figure standing stock-still in the doorway.

It was Enjolras.

Grantaire’s expression became at once both stunned and gleefully, unbearably amused, the embodiment of nervous laughter and genuine, awkward, gleeful mortification. Enjolras just looked plain mortified. Grantaire covered his face in his hands and turned away, muttering “oh god,” into his palm, and the fact that this was Enjolras of all people lent a genuineness to the air of just having been discovered. It was all-too-suddenly real, the sense of having been caught doing something naughty, and Courfeyrac was unable to tear his face away from Enjolras’ expression, his genuine mortification. Because that was what it was. It wasn’t shock, it wasn’t disgust, and it wasn’t exasperation.

It was the look of a man who had been shot in the chest, not the head. A man who had been shot in the heart.

Grantaire’s face was still buried in his hand, and he did not see the slight tremor in Enjolras’s whole body before he spun around and slammed the door shut behind him without a word. Courfeyrac bit his lip.

For the first time since becoming a “couple”, he decided he and Grantaire needed to have it.

A Couple’s Talk.


	4. Chapter 4

‘Had you been there tonight you might also have known, how your world may be changed in just one burst of light,’

 Enjolras curled up on the couch and hummed to himself.

 ‘And what was right seems wrong, and what was wrong seems right …’

 He allowed himself to imagine what would have happened if he had taken Grantaire to the hospital after the failed march, taken him to his own home. If he had refused to get back with Joly, if he had been the one to go out onto the balcony that night, or better, if he had pushed Joly aside, and kissed Grantaire instead. He allowed himself to think of the myriad of things he could have done that might have led to a different outcome than this.

Is this how it felt for Grantaire, when he saw Enjolras kiss Joly? Is that what Enjolras did to him? The more unhappy he became, the guiltier he felt, knowing that no, whatever he felt now, it didn’t come close. Grantaire had loved him for much longer, and suffered unwarranted spite in return as soon as he showed even a glimpse of his feelings. All Enjolras had to deal with was knowing that he had had Grantaire within his grasp, and that he had fallen short. All he had to deal with was knowing that Grantaire was in somebody else’s bed, smiling and laughing at somebody else, being satisfied by somebody else … when that somebody came so close to being Enjolras. And wound up being Courfeyrac, because Enjolras tore it all to pieces without a second thought, and ultimately sent Grantaire to another man’s arms. He was responsible for that.

Enjolras rolled over so he was facing the back of the couch. Joly had left that afternoon, quietly understanding, after their talk. It had been a brief talk, and one that they may as well not have bothered with. Joly had always seen Enjolras’ feelings before he had seen them himself, and his concern for Grantaire, his inability to keep himself from paying too close attention, had signalled something to Joly that Enjolras’ slowness gave him time to come to terms with. They parted peacefully, but they parted as friends.

After he was sure Joly had had time to get to Bossuet’s house, he picked up his phone and scrolled through the messages. He had a habit of saving all of them, for security, and was never more thankful or less happy about it than now.

The date of the last text Grantaire ever sent him was the morning before that fateful meeting. Grantaire had not texted him at all after that.

Three months. How had Enjolras not noticed? It sent him into a minor panic, exacerbated by his self-pity and the sudden, unfamiliar feeling of inferiority, and he wondered what else he had failed to notice. Was he even as suitable a leader as he previously thought? How much did he miss on a daily basis? Was he actually stupid? Did everyone know how stupid he was, and just tolerate him bossing them about because they were too humiliated on his behalf to say anything?

The phone buzzing in his hand nearly gave Enjolras a heart attack. He fumbled with it for a second, then lifted it to his ear.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi.’

His heart stopped.

‘What’s up?’

If he sounded a bit clipped, he couldn’t help it. His brain was soup and he was battling with the urge not to sniffle.

‘So, I just wanted to apologize. We really didn’t hear you coming.’

‘It’s fine.’

 _It’s fucking not. I’ve been crying my eyes out for an hour. Come over and I swear I will let you move in with me, cuddle you and blow you and bake you a cake, whatever it takes for you to decide I’m better than Courfeyrac and magically develop feelings for me again_.

‘No, really. You didn’t need to see that.’

‘Nope.’

A chuckle, slightly mechanical over the line (the reception on Grantaire’s phone was awful and he rarely used it except to send drunken texts).

‘Well, so long as you knock next time.’

‘Sorry for ruining the magic of the moment.’ Enjolras didn’t know why he said it. It was half bitter, half honest, and he prayed to God that wasn’t how it sounded. Or, if that was how it sounded, that Grantaire would chalk it up to his bad reception and leave it there.

‘It’s fine,’ Grantaire replied breezily. ‘We continued after you left. No harm done.’

It was a bad move, abruptly hanging up like that. If there was any way to signal to Grantaire that he was emotionally not okay with it, then that was it. But he tossed his phone across the room and curled into a ball again anyway, and let himself dramatically sulk.

Halfway across the town, Grantaire stared at his phone, then at Courfeyrac.

‘Fuck,’ he murmured. ‘I think you might be right.’

* 

Enjolras didn’t see Grantaire or Courfeyrac for two weeks. No-one commented, at least not within earshot. There were not nearly as many meetings, and at the meetings that did happen, either Enjolras was there, or Grantaire and Courfeyrac were there, but never at the same time.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac stopped putting on inordinate public displays of affection anyway. It didn’t feel right or fun anymore. Grantaire became edgy, getting up off the couch in the middle of the night and going for long walks around the street, even though Courfeyrac had told him that the area could be a little rough.

One morning he sat up eating cereal listlessly and giving Courfeyrac a thousand-yard-stare that sent shivers up his spine until finally he plonked himself down next to Grantaire and grabbed him by the shoulders.

‘Alright. Seriously. Are you stoned?’

‘What? No,’ Grantaire said, baffled. ‘Just thinking.’

‘Looks like it’s one hell of a foreign experience.’

‘Piss off. I’m thinking about us.’

‘Oh, okay. Are we going to have another Couple Talk?’

‘Do you think we should?’

‘I don’t know. I think so. Don’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ Courfeyrac said, and nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I think we should.’

That was all they said at all for a few minutes, Courfeyrac finishing his tea and Grantaire finishing his cereal with the air of two people who aren’t looking forward to the conversation.

‘So,’ Grantaire sighed lengthily. ‘Enjolras.’ He rolled the name on his tongue thoughtfully, hushed and reluctant.

‘Enj,’ Courfeyrac agreed. Then, as the frankness inspired by the name hung fresh in the air, ‘I feel like this whole thing has backfired really badly.’

Grantaire bit his lip and curled his fingers around the spoon twiddling in his hand. ‘I just can’t … I can’t let myself believe so quickly that this would mean anything to him. anything like that.’

The vulnerability was plain on his face. Courfeyrac, not for the first time, wished that Enjolras could stand invisible in the room while they spoke and see Grantaire, really see him. Without the deflecting coat of humour and tipsiness, without the immune silliness and faux bravado. Just as he was.

'Well, it does,’ Courfeyrac said bluntly. ‘It’s affecting him. If it didn’t mean anything, we’d all be carrying on as normal, but we’re not. I think he’s been trying to re-evaluate what you mean to him ever since that fuckup of a rally. Maybe even earlier than that. He’s tried to keep it to himself, but he’s struggling. I can see it. I’m pretty sure the others can too.’

Grantaire continued biting his lip until Courfeyrac worried that he’d split it. He gazed at his empty bowl and twiddled the spoon until he dropped it, and when he bent down to pick it up, Courfeyrac noted the shiver in his fingers. He didn’t look Courfeyrac in the eyes, even when he sat up straight.

‘I’m just scared to hope,’ he said in a small voice. ‘That’s all.’

Courfeyrac placed a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and brought them close so their foreheads were touching. Grantaire let him. Then he coaxed Grantaire’s eyes to meet his.

‘So,’ he sighed. ‘What do you want to do?’

Grantaire shrugged. ‘Stop pretending, I guess.’


	5. Chapter 5

Eponine was late with the coffee. Cosette looked in the window a couple of times, and saw her chatting with Jehan Prouvaire, waiter and poet extraordinaire, and sure enough, when Eponine came out holding a steaming cup of latte in each hand, the receipt had a short sonnet penned on the back.

‘He rhymed your name with “spleen”,’ Cosette said doubtfully.

‘He doesn’t rhyme at all if he can help it,’ Eponine said, licking a dot of latte off her wrist. ‘I think he’s trying on this visceral Plath-type language. Or maybe it’s just been a long Monday. We should go to his poetry slam tonight and see if he does anything about how his supervisor whores herself out to The Man.’

‘Bossuet started writing poetry,’ Cosette mentioned, trying to keep her attention off the way Eponine was shuffling a folder from arm to arm, retrieving her bus money and drinking at the same time. It made her nervous, even though she knew Eponine could probably be balancing a plate on a long stick at the same time if it took her fancy.

‘What? No way. Bossuet’s too cool for poetry, isn’t he?’ Eponine asked, frowning.

‘His crush isn’t. He says he’s fallen in love with a sensitive soul, and wants to win him over by proving his worthiness and spirituality through the medium of haiku.’

‘”Him”?’ Eponine repeated. ‘Maybe there is a bug going around. I thought he was with Musichetta? I wonder who in the gang is sensitive. It can’t be Prouvaire, he hates traditional forms.’

‘I think he still is with Musichetta. They could be polyamorous. Maybe it’s Courfeyrac. He believes in feng shui, that’s kind of spiritual. And he is fair game now.’

‘Poor Grantaire, huh. Guy can’t catch a break.’

‘He seemed okay about the breakup when I spoke to him,’ Cosette insisted. ‘Actually, he seemed relieved, like he’d been waiting for it to happen. He and Courfeyrac are still good friends. He’s still staying at his house, and everything.’

Eponine shrugged. ‘You never know. Some people hide their feelings well.’

Cosette hummed. ‘He didn’t hide how he felt about Enj.’

‘That’s true. I don’t know about you, but I always had the feeling that he never got over that. Maybe that’s why he and Courfeyrac broke up. They both knew he was still hankering after our fearless leader.’

‘I hope he didn’t call out Enj’s name in bed. That would be really bad.’

The two took a moment to imagine. A grin spread across Eponine’s features. ‘Picturing it?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Oh, Courfeyrac. Oh, oh fuck, oh Courfeyrac, yes, right there … Oh, Enjolras!!’

‘Shut up!! People are staring!’

Eponine cackled evilly, and downed the rest of her latte before jumping on the bus. ‘Coming?’

Cosette frowned disapprovingly and followed Eponine to the back of the bus, where they found Fueilly, Bahorel and Combeferre.

‘Mornin. We’re going to be late for class,’ Combeferre said helpfully. ‘Where’s the lover?’

‘He had to go to work, so he couldn’t give me a lift,’ Cosette said. Eponine rolled her eyes.

‘What?’

‘Poor flower. I always knew you were disappointed about having to catch the bus with the rest of us commoners. You and Marius are so posh.’

Cosette knew Eponine didn’t mean it to sound vitriolic, but she stuck out her chin anyway.

‘I don’t mind catching the bus at all. It gives me more time to hang out with you guys. And in case you forget, I’m a commoner too.’

‘Yeah, a commoner who was adopted by a guy with loads of dosh,’ Eponine pointed out.

‘Papa’s not loaded. He’s just good with shares and investments and stuff. We don’t have much more than anyone else.’

‘Only because he keeps donating to charities. What is it this week? The Salvation Army? The Red Cross?’ Fueilly asked casually.

‘The RSPCA,’ Cosette said proudly. Combeferre and Bahorel laughed. Cosette scowled. ‘Animals deserve as much respect and care as you or me,’ she said sternly. 

As Cosette occupied herself with breathing fog on the window and drawing “M 4 C” within a big heart, Eponine leaned in across her seat.

‘Did you hear about Grantaire and Courfeyrac?’ she whispered.

‘Oh, yeah. Yesterday, I think. Or maybe it was Saturday. Poor Grantaire,’ Combeferre said solemnly.

‘I thought he seemed okay about it,’ Feuilly admitted.

‘Yeah, that’s what we thought too,’ Eponine said. ‘And now Bossuet’s in love with someone, but he won’t say who it is.’

‘Must be someone in our circle, if he’s trying to keep it a secret,’ Bahorel mused.

‘Maybe they’re already with someone, so he doesn’t want to cause a fuss?’

‘I dunno. It’s a guy.’

‘Seriously?’

They almost missed their stop, and had to run to their classes without talking about where to meet up. Eponine, whose parents didn’t have the money or devotion to send her to further education, loafed around the campus seeing how many “no smoking” signs she could smoke under without getting caught.

Enjolras, she decided, was interesting because he had dumped Joly days before Grantaire and Courfeyrac split up. No-one else seemed to have made the connection, or see it as suspect, but Eponine knew better than to dismiss it as a timing coincidence. Enjolras had become more concerned with Grantaire since the rally. And Grantaire, she knew, never got over Enjolras. And Courfeyrac didn’t have the stars-in-his-eyes look that Bossuet had, not even when Grantaire sprawled on his lap. Something was up.

She ran into Gavroche at the café across the road just outside the campus, where she’d bought herself a plate of scones and jam, and gave him a bear hug.

‘Hi there, little pup,’ she said teasingly, and got a snap of his little white teeth in return. ‘How’s your bro?’

‘Fine. Everyone’s asking since he and Grantaire broke up,’ Gavroche said, wrinkling his nose. ‘Not that they were ever together to begin with.’

‘Oh?’ Eponine said, raising her eyebrows.

‘Grantaire’s been sleeping on the couch this whole time. I may be a kid, but I know what couples are supposed to do when they’re, you know. Coupling.’

‘Coupling,’ Eponine repeated slowly, with a smirk. ‘So Grantaire and Courfeyrac never … coupled?’

‘Nope,’ Gavroche said through a mouthful of Eponine’s scone and jam. ‘And they didn’t cosy up to each other when no-one was around, either. I go over to use Courfeyrac’s playstation all the time, and they never bothered pretending, because I’m a kid, yeah? So Grantaire just vacuums the lounge room and does the dishes and bakes cupcakes and it’s like he’s Courfeyrac’s housemate.’

‘Huh.’

‘Not that you’d be surprised,’ Gavroche said, picking at the little plastic jam cup. ‘You knew they weren’t really sleeping together, yeah?’

‘I suppose,’ Eponine said quietly. ‘I’ve been wondering about the boys all day.’

‘They’re all barmy,’ Gavroche said, with a sniff of agreement. ‘Get they to a nunnery, so they can stop all this bloody nonsense.’

Eponine laughed. ‘It’s girls that go to nunneries. And I’ve always been suspicious about what goes on in abbeys.’

‘Who’s Abby?’

‘Abbeys, you twit. Like nunneries but for monks.’

‘Oh. Well they should all go a live in abbeys then. Except for Bossuet. He’s a lost cause,’ Gavroche said, punctuating the sentence by tossing the empty jam cup into the bin across the room, startling the other patrons.

‘You heard about him already? Word spreads fast.’

Gavroche rolled his eyes, as if to say “duh, it’s me.” ‘Have you figured out who he fancies yet?’

‘I’m working on it. You’ve already got it figured out, don’t you?’

‘Well duh, dumbo. Joly.’

Eponine’s blank expression made Gavroche laugh. ‘Are you fucking serious?’

‘Yes, I’m fucking serious, and you shouldn’t fucking swear around me you irresponsible fucker, I’m at an impressionable fucking age,’ Gavroche said with practised ease, poking his tongue out at the old lady at the next table across when she whimpered and stared.

‘Joly? Really? But he’s writing haikus.’

‘Joly’s learning Japanese. There’s this medical school his dad wants him to attend in Tokyo as part of an exchange. He told Bossuet that he didn’t want to go, and mentioned that the only thing about Japan that he liked were the haikus.’

‘Liar. He watches anime porn too.’

‘It’s called hentai.’

‘This is intriguing stuff,’ Eponine said thoughtfully. ‘Like a soap opera.’

Then she grinned devilishly, and stood to walk out, Gavroche trailing behind with his hands in his pockets. They faced the school, and saw Enjolras awkwardly smile at Courfeyrac as they stopped on their way to class.

‘Maybe they just all need a hand with getting their relationships sorted.’

Gavroche looked up at Eponine, and returned her grin.


	6. Chapter 6

‘Joly did what now?’

Grantaire thumped Courfeyrac on the back to stop him from choking, but it only seemed to make it worse. The others around the table – Cosette, Marius, Eponine and Gavroche respectively – patiently waited for him to clear his lungs before continuing.

‘He rescued Bossuet from Enjolras. Enjolras was angry at Bossuet for something he supposedly said about Grantaire …’ Courfeyrac, still red-faced from choking, glanced next to him as he said this, but Grantaire’s face was a mask, ‘and Joly stepped in and told Enjolras to stop being so hypersensitive and accused him of butting into other people’s business. It’s basically the first time they’ve fought in, well, forever. They didn’t even fight when their relationship ended.’

The smug look that passed between Gavroche and Eponine went unnoticed.

‘Apparently Bossuet was so thrilled he wrote a full-length poem about it. Six stanzas, the whole shebang.’

‘Heavy.’

‘Oh, yeah. What did he even say about Grantaire?’ Courfeyrac asked, forgetting that it was his story.

‘No idea. Bossuet said he didn’t say anything, but I guess someone must have given Enjolras the idea that Grantaire’s honour needed defending,’ Gavroche said casually.

Grantaire looked steadily at the nachos in the middle of the table and didn’t take the bait, so the subject was dropped and Marius started talking about the weekend he and Cosette were going to spend volunteering at the animal shelter. Grantaire left the table with money borrowed from Courfeyrac when Cosette started talking about the kitten she wanted to adopt, and Eponine and Gavroche watched with veiled interest as he went to order a beer, and paused, ordering lemonade instead. Gavroche, unable to help himself, stooped down quickly before Grantaire came back and snatched Grantaire’s wallet from the bag under Courfeyrac’s seat. No-one except Eponine noticed, and she pinched him as he sat up.

‘You know he has no money, what the fuck are you doing?’ she hissed.

‘Relax. Part of the plan,’ Gavroche whispered back, coughing to cover the sound as Marius glanced over, and gesturing to the nachos in the middle of the table apologetically.

It hadn’t been an official meeting because hardly anyone could make it except for the six of them, but they had shown up for the food and to hang out anyway. As they were leaving, Marius offered a lift to Eponine. She was ferociously tempted and knew that it was deeply out of character for her to refuse, but she did anyway. At the raised eyebrows of everyone in the group who cared, she gestured to Gavroche.

‘Someone has to walk him home. It’s not too far.’

Marius looked doubtfully at the pair of them. The take-away shop was in a relatively safe area of the city, and he was already giving everybody else a lift. There wouldn’t be room for Gavroche as well as Eponine, Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Cosette, and he was squeamish about letting people sit on other people’s laps or in the boot of the car.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Eponine assured him. It stung a little, just as much as it warmed her heart, seeing the indecision in his face. He’d offer the same to any friend. But eventually, he let her walk, and there was a similar warmth, knowing that he trusted her to look after herself and Gavroche. She wasn’t the one he loved. But between her and Cosette, Eponine was the savvy one, the strong and smart one. She was the one who, to put it brutally, didn’t need a prince charming. So Cosette got prince charming, and Eponine got the security of knowing that she’d survive on her own.

It was true that Gavroche didn’t live far away. And neither did Enjolras. Grantaire, they’d learned at dinner, would be spending the night in a motel room several streets away while Courfeyrac let Bossuet and Joly sleep at his house. Bossuet’s father had found out he was in love with another man and kicked him out, and Joly, not knowing that he was the man in question, had offered to spend the evening with Bossuet in a show of solidarity, which was why everyone at the table (who, thanks to Gavroche, knew that Joly was Bossuet’s crush) was so fascinated.

And so this was the plan: Gavroche, having conveniently “found” Grantaire’s wallet, would casually hand it in to Enjolras, who lived one street away in his third-floor apartment, and claim not to know where Grantaire was. Enjolras, being invasively concerned with Grantaire, would call Courfeyrac, who would tell him Grantaire’s location.

And then, before they knew it, Enjolras and Grantaire would be alone in a motel room together.

Cue sexy music.

Eponine focussed all her effort on wiping the grin off her face as they climbed the stairs. Gavroche knocked on the door briskly, fingering the worn leather of Grantaire’s wallet.

‘Wish I’d checked for credit cards,’ he said quietly and mournfully as they heard Enjolras holler “just a minute”.

Then the door opened, and Enjolras seemed to recognize Grantaire’s wallet immediately, if his expression was any indication. His hair was wet from the shower, but instead of pyjamas he wore old trousers and a t-shirt with a hole in the side.

Eponine silently marvelled and Gavroche’s acting ability as they presented their story. Entirely convincing. As Gavroche was “struck” by the ingenuous idea that Enjolras should called Courfeyrac and get Grantaire’s new temporary address, Eponine turned around and inspected a crack in the hallway ceiling to hide her simper. She was so proud of her little buddy. He was like a little Thenardier, only noble.

Enjolras fell for the bait, and Gavroche and Eponine waited until they hit to street to release gales of victorious laughter.

Up in his apartment, Enjolras was almost sweating with nervousness. It was incredibly unfair. Why him? He hoped Grantaire was miles away, so he’d have an excuse to give the wallet to somebody else to hand over. 

He turned the scuffed object over in his hands listlessly, and it slipped from his fingertips to the floorboards. Swearing, he bent down to pick it up. It had flapped open. Curiosity filled Enjolras, and he considered the moral ramifications. This was Grantaire’s wallet. He shouldn’t be going through it. It wasn’t his.

Grantaire wasn’t his.

And it was a freaky, stalkerish thing to do.

Enjolras went through the wallet.

There were year-old movie ticket stubs on thin white shiny paper, the ink faded until it was almost unreadable. There was an expired voucher for a cheap clothing store, an old black USB drive in the zippered coin section, and one thrice-folded note of monopoly money. In the clear plastic pocket where there would normally be an ID card, Grantaire had one folded photograph. Enjolras took it out.

He was touched, in a melancholy way. It was the group of them together in the ABC café, huddled so they’d all fit in the picture, cramped but smiling. It was at least three years old. In it, Bahorel still had his horrible flannel shirt thing going on, Combeferre still had his awful fringe, Marius looked grim and incredibly single, and Enjolras had forgotten they’d even taken that photo, but here it was, a white line in the middle from how long it had been folded, or perhaps from Grantaire constantly unfolding and re-folding it, and the thought made Enjolras’ heart twinge. Grantaire was the “man who did not believe in anything”. And here it was, one of the few things in his wallet. One of the few things he cared about. This photo.

Enjolras suddenly felt uncomfortably, deliciously close to Grantaire. He imagined that this was how a man must feel spying in on a woman undressing in front of her bedroom window. So intimate, but so far away. He took out his phone, and texted Courfeyrac, half-hoping still that the text wouldn’t be read until the following morning, half-hoping that Courfeyrac would get it straight away and Grantaire would turn out to be on his way to Enjolras’ apartment already, having been met by Gavroche on the street.

Both halves went unsatisfied. Courfeyrac texted him half an hour later. Grantaire was not at his place, but at a motel several streets away.

Enjolras felt cheated. He could realistically walk to where Grantaire was and hand the wallet over in person. But it was late, and that would surely look weird. But it would keep him awake, knowing that Grantaire’s wallet was on his kitchen counter. Knowing that Grantaire was within walking distance. He had purposefully been avoiding him, and it already looked suspicious. He had no doubt people were already talking. But he couldn’t …

He had to. This had to end.

Enjolras pushed his feet into his shoes and jogged on the spot to get his heart going, Grantaire’s wallet clutched in his right hand. He fetched his keys, set the alarm, and went out into the brisk night-time chill, striding confidently in the direction of where he would find Grantaire, trembling on the inside with thrilled terror.


	7. Chapter 7

It must have been after 11.30. Almost all of the motel lights were off, except for Grantaire’s. The thin curtains had been drawn over his window, leaving only two yellowish rectangles for Enjolras to stare at, and guess.

Courfeyrac had given Enjolras the motel room number, in case the people at the front desk had a policy about giving them out, so Enjolras went straight to room 7 and stood for a few seconds in front of the door, turning the wallet over in his hands and taking deep breaths. He was handing over the wallet. That was all. Because he was practically up the road (not, you know, three streets away or anything) and it was the neighbourly thing to do.

He knocked on the door quickly, and tried to arrange his face and stance into something resembling nonchalance.

No answer.

Enjolras knocked again. Maybe Grantaire was asleep? Maybe he left the lights on by accident. Enjolras glanced in the window, trying to interpret shapes, and feeling more than ever like a stalker. No movement, and no response.

Enjolras considered walking home and returning in the morning. It seemed like a waste of a long walk, not to mention the effort it took to mentally prepare himself, and the thought of leaving now left such a strong disappointment, so he knocked a third time, longer and harder, and stood back.

A muffled thump came from the other side of the door, followed by a whimper. Enjolras felt his eyes narrow. Surely not …

The door opened a couple of inches, restricted by the chain that Grantaire had forgotten to unlock.

‘ _Hangonaminnnn_ …’ he slurred, tugging at the door, only noticing the chain after the third frustrated tug. Enjolras opened his mouth and closed it again.

Grantaire was absolutely hammered.

The door opened fully, and Grantaire took a moment to stand upright, red-eyed, supported partly by the door handle, and focus on his guest. A flash of recognition, quickly followed by confusion.

‘You! Are here. Why are you here?’ Grantaire barked loudly.

‘Shh,’ Enjolras hissed, glancing about. Grantaire stuck his head out the door and looked around as well. Enjolras fought an urge to push him back in, and held up Grantaire’s wallet in front of his face instead.

‘Oh! It’s my thing. Why do you have it?’ Grantaire asked, feeling his back pocket absently.

‘Gavroche found it earlier tonight. He didn’t know where you were, so he gave it to me to drop off.’

‘Oh,’ Grantaire said, and took the wallet shakily. Enjolras, concern mounting, looked over Grantaire’s shoulder to see the row of empty tiny liquor bottles stacked on the wooden bedside table.

‘I didn’t even know this place had tiny booze,’ Enjolras said. ‘I thought that was only fancy hotels.’

‘Oh, yeah. No,’ Grantaire said, turning to see what Enjolras was looking at. ‘Those are just ones I stole from other hotels and crap. It’s like my hobby. The collection reached twenty bottles and I thought I might … I dunno. Celebrate. By drinking them.’

Enjolras reached out to grab Grantaire’s arm as his legs slowly gave way, and pulled it around his own shoulders, carrying Grantaire to the chair by the door.

‘You drank twenty small bottles of booze?’

‘Naw. Just twelve … I think. Maybe thirteen. No, I had to drink fourteen, that’s right. Because thirteen’s an unlucky number. I didn’t eat much nachos …’ he trailed off, looking suddenly deep in thought. Or about to throw up. Enjolras made a note of the location of the bathroom, just in case.

‘I shouldn’t have woken you up,’ Enjolras said, fighting down the anger that usually threatened to surface when he saw Grantaire like this.

Before Joly, before Courfeyrac, before this whole nightmare began, he had been angry at Grantaire’s drinking because it was irresponsible and made him look like an idiot. It proved, as far as Enjolras was concerned, that Grantaire was careless, irresponsible. Right now, he just wanted to see Grantaire sober, awake, aware, he wanted a chance to talk to him alone without Grantaire being off his face.

Because that was what he had walked three streets for, he realized. It was never about the wallet. He wanted to talk to Grantaire. He wanted to see him. Thrash it all out, properly, without the other guys around, without anyone to impress, without exes and boyfriends and all of that bullshit …

 _Courfeyrac_. Fuck. Grantaire and Courfeyrac had broken up only a week ago. Grantaire was here, alone, drunk, instead of at Courfeyrac’s house. That was it. It stung, the jarring reminder.

Grantaire’s head was lolling. He shut his eyes and his numb-looking fingers loosened, dropped the wallet. Enjolras knelt to pick it up, placed it on the bedside table and tossed the empty little bottles in the bin. Then he returned to Grantaire’s side and gently helped him off the chair.

He was heartbroken, on Grantaire’s behalf and on his own. He half-carried Grantaire to the bed and sat him heavily down, where the drunkard put his head in his hands and let out a long and slightly sick-sounding sigh. Then Enjolras quietly went to the bathroom and got the small bin, a cup of water and a wet cloth, and brought them out. He took the top off the small bin and placed it next to the bed, should Grantaire need it in the night, or in the morning.

Grantaire lay flat on top of the sheets. His shoes were already halfway across the room, probably from earlier that night, and his jeans and shirt were still on.

‘Do you have pajamas anywhere?’ Enjolras asked. Grantaire slowly shook his head, and then opened his eyes.

‘Do you have a bag of clothes, or something? Something clean you can wear?’

‘These are clean,’ Grantaire whined, picking at his jeans.

‘You can’t wear jeans to bed.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me.’

‘Well I’m not sleeping naked. It’ll be too cold in the morning.’

Enjolras sighed, and gave the cup of water to Grantaire. When it was drank, he dabbed the wet cloth over Grantaire’s face and wiped it gently across his neck. He felt warm. He smelled like a pub. But he smiled when Enjolras swept the cloth over his forehead, and shut his eyes again.

‘That feels nice.’

Enjolras supposed he was imagining Courfeyrac. Hit by a sudden urge, he ran his fingertips under Grantaire’s fringe, and felt the almost-invisible scar there. Grantaire, at first, lay still, and breathed out a soft murmur.

Grantaire struggled to sit up, and Enjolras placed his hand on Grantaire’s chest.

‘You should stay lying down,’ Enjolras warned.

‘No,’ Grantaire grunted, dragging himself into a seated position. ‘I need to do this. While I’m feeling courageous.’

‘Need to do what while you’re -’ Enjolras was cut off by an unexpectedly nimble move from Grantaire, which ended with him flat on his back, and Grantaire hovering over him.

‘You’re a fucking torment,’ Grantaire said harshly. ‘And you’ve brought this on yourself.’

And then he dropped his full weight onto Enjolras, and covered his mouth with a boozy, tongue-filled kiss.

Enjolras was shocked into sheer complacency, laying still for what felt like a minute while Grantaire slid his hands firmly up under Enjolras’ jacket and thin t-shirt, pawing at his chest and waist, just as sloppily as he kissed, exploring every inch of Enjolras, filling his senses with the taste of alcohol. All Enjolras could think to be affronted about was the fact that, under the thick layer of tequila and rum and Bacardi and whatever else had been in those bottles, he couldn’t properly taste Grantaire.

Too soon, the snog was over, Grantaire lifting himself up on his elbows and staring hazily down at Enjolras. Enjolras could practically hear the accusations begin already. _You’re not Courfeyrac. What are you doing in my motel room?_

‘I expected you to … you know. Fight back.’

Enjolras blinked, and tried to think of an answer.

‘I didn’t … want to.’

‘You don’t want to hit me?’

‘What? No.’

Grantaire rolled onto his back so he was lying next to Enjolras. ‘Oh.’

Enjolras remained tactically still. Inside, he seethed.

_Oh? Oh. Fine then. Just an “oh”. You threw yourself at me and groped me and maybe I enjoyed it and I’m reallyhopingyoudon’tnoticemyerectionbut OH, no big deal._

‘I had this speech lined up,’ Grantaire said, as if to explain. ‘I was planning on doing this sometime sooner, except the chance never appeared. I was going to throw myself at you, take a shot at a quick pash, maybe cop a feel, and then sob an apology when you got angry and knocked me out. But I did get a proper French kiss, and I copped a feel, but you haven’t knocked me out, so I just … don’t really know what to do, now.’

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at the ceiling.

‘You planned to feel me up and then apologize.’

‘Yeah. I’m a bit gutted I didn’t get to do the apologizing bit, actually. It was a really good speech. I practiced it.’

Enjolras was speechless. Out of all of the things he’d pictured … all the daydreams he had felt guilty about having. His mind was soup. Grantaire had planned … to kiss him.

Grantaire had planned to _kiss him_.

'Do you still fancy me?’ he asked, shyly, fearfully, because Grantaire was drunk, and hopefully wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. And because Enjolras really, really, really needed to know, right now.

At first there was only silence. Enjolras turned his head to face Grantaire, and realized he was being glared at. Grantaire looked as if Enjolras had just accused him of stealing a zoo animal. He shrank a little where he lay, already feeling like an idiot. It wasn’t a feeling that came easily to him. Then Grantaire rolled his eyes and opened his mouth.

‘Well, fucking DUUUUH.’

The “duuuh” made Enjolras feel slightly dizzy. Partly because it was the first (or second, counting the mind-blowing first kiss) sign in a short cartridge of rapid-fire signs that Grantaire actually wanted him, legit, for-sure _wanted_ him, and partly because it was accompanied by a strong breeze of alcoholic breath. Enjolras wriggled his nose and rolled onto his side so that he was facing Grantaire.

‘How long?’

‘I dunno. Over a year. You never noticed. And then you did, but only after you got hot for Joly, that damn awful night when we were all just having a nice party and then you went and punched me in the soul.’

Enjolras winced, and tentatively slid a hand across the covers to Grantaire, who didn’t notice, and kept talking.

‘And then I tried to get everyone to leave me alone, just because I cried like _once_ , and seriously, this is why men can’t cry. Everyone just freaks out. And then the rally, and jesus christ, and then Courfeyrac let me stay at his place …’

Enjolras’ hand had almost reached Grantaire’s arm, but it stopped there at the repeated reminder of Courfeyrac, fingers curling in, elbow tucking back into Enjolras’ chest.

‘Who gave a stellar performance, by the way. He and I, I’m telling you. Bros for life. It was like interactive drama, or, like, installation art, or whatever you call it when people act in public. Like LARPing. We were LARPing romance. Bards will sing of us in years to come.’ Grantaire snorted, and didn’t notice Enjolras slowly simmering into a combination of built-up frustration, jealousy and outrage beside him. ‘Maybe they’ll make a musical. So yeah, I’ve been in love with you this whole time, really.’

Enjolras jerked up onto his elbows and knees and straddled Grantaire.

‘Woah. Too quick. I can’t track you when I’m this wasted.’

Enjolras slid his body down onto Grantaire’s, fitting them together in all the right places with sober precision, pressing his mouth onto Grantaire’s and taking control of the kiss, because if they were finally doing this, they were doing it right, and that meant Enjolras being in charge. Because now he was finally sure, he wasn’t stupid. And if he was, it was only because he fell for such a stupid plot that only stupid Grantaire could come up with, _faking_ a _boyfriend_ , what did he think he was doing, Courfeyrac was going to get a stink bomb in the mail, that dickhead, but it was very hard to think about Courfeyrac or even be angry with Grantaire moaning beneath him and bucking his hips up like that. It was only meant to be a kiss. A pushy, gimme gimme kiss, but a kiss only.

Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’ ass with both hands, and Enjolras pulled away, surprised to feel himself panting. He propped himself up on his elbows the way Grantaire had before, and couldn’t help but wonder if the view had been so lovely. Grantaire was flushed (possibly just the alcohol, but Enjolras liked to think he had helped) and his lips, plump and shining, were parted, his eyes heavily lidded and practically black with arousal.

‘Shame on you,’ Grantaire croaked. ‘Taking advantage of a drunk.’

‘Your hands are still on my bum.’ _Clutching, in fact. Not that I’m complaining. At all._

‘Your bum started it.’

But Grantaire had a point. Enjolras quickly made up his mind. He climbed off Grantaire, not without a little difficulty – Grantaire could be surprisingly strong when he didn’t want to let go of something – and took off his jacket and wrestled Grantaire out of his jeans. Grantaire made to jump of Enjolras, but missed when Enjolras rolled to the other side of the bed.

‘We’re not shagging.’

‘ _Pleeeeaase_ , you righteous asshole.’

‘No, and stop calling me names. I’m just sleeping next to you tonight. Tomorrow when you’re sober, we’ll have a proper talk. I don’t want to go too far while you’re not, you know. In full control of all your faculties.’

‘If you’re worried I can’t get it up, that’s clearly not an issue,’ Grantaire said, tossing off the blanket Enjolras had thrown over him and gesturing to the erection straining through his briefs. Enjolras felt his cheeks burn and deliberately dragged the blankets all the way up to his chin, and turned over so he had his back to Grantaire.

‘I meant,’ he said firmly, ‘that it would be wrong of me to take advantage of you while you’re drunk.’

‘Oh come on, you cocktease, I’ve basically sobered up,’ Grantaire whined, snuggling up to Enjolras’ back and grinding against him lewdly. Enjolras jerked wildly and nearly fell off the bed.

‘Nope. No. You’re still slurring. And you drank fourteen bottles of tiny booze. Actually, why did you get yourself pissed? If you weren’t sad about the fake breakup with Courfeyrac, I mean.’

Grantaire stared blankly at him. ‘I had twenty tiny bottles of booze. What would you do with twenty tiny bottles of booze?' Enjolras raised one eyebrow, and Grantaire flopped onto his back.

‘I dunno. I didn’t mind leaving Courfeyrac’s house so the boys could have some alone time. I’m not complaining. It was just, suddenly being by myself again, I just started thinking about you. It was okay, for a while. But when things change, I just … I mean, I’m used to not having anything constant, because things just change for me, all the time. But I couldn’t find my footing this time. I just wanted you. And, as far as I knew, I couldn’t have you. Ever.’

Enjolras realized he was staring, and that his hand had reached out to Grantaire of its own accord again. He let it. Grantaire must have realized what he was saying, and his face rapidly reshaped into his casual, offhand grin. His mask.

‘But then here you are, all of a sudden. Why did you come here again? And how did you even know where I was?’

Enjolras left his hand on Grantaire’s chest, stroking the area above his heart. ‘I came to return your wallet, remember? Gavroche found it. I sent a text to Courfeyrac, and he told me you were here.’

‘How the hell did Gavroche …’ Grantaire trailed off, and his eyes widened. He looked wildly around and rolled off the bed, and Enjolras followed anxiously, hoping he didn’t fall over and bash his head against something. Grantaire stumbled about until he found his wallet, and then squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying desperately to remember something. When he did open his eyes, Enjolras was at his side, gazing with concern at his face.

‘That little shit,’ Grantaire said, looking down at his wallet, and then at Enjolras. ‘That marvellous little shit. Do I thank him or strangle him? What do you think?’

Enjolras, gradually comprehending, felt himself grow both angry and grudgingly impressed. Gavroche hadn’t “found” Grantaire’s wallet.

They stood, and wondered how many people must have known for the child to resort to such a grand scheme.

‘Well,’ Enjolras said perfunctorily, taking Grantaire’s hand and leading him back to the edge of the bed. ‘I think Eponine might have helped a bit.’


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixed the formatting in this chapter.

Grantaire grit his teeth, breath coming in short gasps. Nearly there. His wrist was starting to hurt, but it was going to be worth it.

‘Come on already,’ Enjolras said, frustration building. Grantaire could hear it in his voice. He gripped harder and firmly twisted his hand, and as it finally came he could hear Enjolras’ sweet sound of satisfaction.

‘Seriously. How hard is it to open a jar?’

‘I didn’t see you helping,’ Grantaire said, passing Enjolras the jar of capers and pinching his hip as he passed him on his way to the bread bin. ‘What are you putting in this salad thing again? You know none of the guys eat salad.’

‘We needed a vegan option. Cosette’s coming tonight.’

‘Chips are vegan.’

‘You always cover them in gravy.’

‘Isn’t gravy vegan? Isn’t it just, I dunno, onion and seasoning and brown paint?’

‘I only have packet stuff. Apparently it’s got animal bits in.’

‘How does she even know? Do you think she just comes into the kitchen during meetings and reads the labels on all your stuff?’

‘Maybe. Apparently her dad does that at the supermarket and it drives his partner nuts.’

‘Didn’t he marry a cop who charged him with theft? Is that romantic, or is that just weird?’

‘I think it’s weird, but Cosette thinks they have a dynamic, or something.’

‘What the fuck is a dynamic?’

‘I don’t know. Apparently we have one.’

‘It sounds like a really demanding pet. Like, I’ve got to take the dynamic for a walk, it’s destroying the carpet.’

It took a little getting used to at first, being suddenly surrounded by Grantaire. It was like adjusting to having a million dollars, or a wonderful and demanding beagle. It was a combination of infuriation and stunned bliss, holding Grantaire at night, knowing he was there, they had finally made it through all the madness, being woken up by lazy kisses or occasionally sleepy foreplay, notably one morning when Grantaire had woken Enjolras by tipping a glass of orange juice over him, then chasing him into the bathroom for a pre-prepared bath and washing his hair. Naked.

The shower sex was the best. For a stumbling drunk, Grantaire had amazing skill for finding traction on slippery surfaces.

He was equal parts ridiculous and beautiful and deeply important, tethered to Enjolras’ heart, both a necessity and a decadent luxurious excess. He baked a lot, and sang along with the radio, and stole Enjolras’ clothes and paraded around the apartment naked on hot days. He was the odd one out, the New Zealand coin in the cash drawer, unique. Special. And he belonged, heart and soul, to Enjolras.

The congratulations when the group found out (and word spread like wildfire) had been so enthusiastic that Enjolras was immediately again concerned that he had been a step behind everyone else. But it was hard to feel anything negative when he knew that Grantaire loved him, moreover, that there had never really been cause to be jealous.

Not that that stopped him from being wary around Courfeyrac. Grantaire still hugged Courfeyrac and pretended to kiss him, and Enjolras couldn’t really blame him when he had to respond every time by dragging Grantaire possessively into his arms, reminding himself and everyone that for every fake kiss Courfeyrac got, all the real kisses were for the REAL boyfriend.

Courfeyrac himself, now back to chasing ladies, mysteriously found himself being enthusiastically chased in return, and by attractive men as well, which he didn’t seem to mind.

Joly and Bossuet were more comfortable expressing their feelings for each other after Grantaire wrapped himself around Enjolras and stuck his tongue down his throat in front of a church billboard quoting Leviticus. They even took a photo on Bossuet’s phone and posted it to facebook, accompanied by a short and sweet poem about truth and beauty, supplied by Prouvaire.

All in all, there was a soft, pleasant, satisfied feeling replacing the discontent. It filled Enjolras from his toes to the top of his head. He was still angry at Parliament, of course, and still organized meetings and set up rallies and protests with as much vigour as he had when all of his time had been devoted to the cause. But now there was something inhabiting that other part of him, that part that had been the gaps in between, the moment just before going to bed, the early morning, the quick lunchtime snack and the fed up moments when he hit a dead end or was cornered by law or by circumstance. Instead of rattling about in a box, he was wrapped, cushioned, and it was odd to think, considering how blatantly damaged Grantaire was. There was something almost inspiring about the way he refused to feel guilty about being a heavy drinker (though not so much anymore – when Enjolras tentatively asked about it, Grantaire said he had found something new, stronger and better to be a addicted to, and for a split second Enjolras had been afraid he’d discovered drugs, until Grantaire shoved his hand down Enjolras’ pants and the conversation was bam over). He refused to be unhappy. He refused to show the socially acceptable response to being homeless and having practically no money. They were both rattling around in the same box now, shielding each other from the worst of the impact.

‘So. Capers, sprouts, whatever those flaky soggy yellow bits are.’

‘Artichoke hearts.’

‘Right. And that other green and white stuff. I’ve got to be honest, love, it looks like compost.’

‘Yes, it does,’ Enjolras said suspiciously, gazing at the salad. It was edible, and had slightly fancy things in it. And it was Cosette’s own fault for not bringing her own damn food.

Grantaire took the second batch of chocolate bikkies out of the oven. People had begun to arrive.

Before too long, the lounge was filled with voices and the occasional shout, Enjolras debating with Combeferre at the table, trying to discern the plan he’d laid out the night before with the charts he’d drawn up while half-asleep. The radio was barely audible above the general chatter, and Grantaire was in the kitchen, responding to the powerfully enthusiastic response to his chocolate biscuits.

Suddenly, he exploded out of the kitchen and ran to the radio, turning it up, making Enjolras stand up ramrod-straight, and Joly hide his face firmly in Bossuet’s back, and Courfeyrac explode into gales of laughter.

‘Enjolras! Baby! This should totally be our song!’ Grantaire declared. ‘It’s dopey and sweet and full of lesbian subtext, just like us!’

Enjolras covered his face with his hand, trying to make it look as if he disapproved, but really, he was trying very hard not to laugh.

_Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,_

_I’m beggin’ of you, please don’t take my man_


End file.
